The Hell it is.
I don't care what my brother and sister Boomers want to try to deceive and delude themselves with. We aren't 30. We are't hip. We aren't even middle-aged anymore, because darned few of us are going to make it to the century mark and beyond.
Having just marked a birthday, I'm cranky. I'm tired of seeing women my age and older trotting around in skirts shorter than what they probably wore in high school. GROW UP, folks. Enjoy this stage of life for what it is, instead of trying to be what you were.
Of course, ever since the fibromyalgia hit, a decade and a half ago, I've gotten periodic opportunities to try on old age. It's not for the weak of heart. But there are upsides. I walk more slowly when things hurt and pull - and sometimes, as a result, I see things that I would have zoomed past 20 years ago. It's certainly not enough to compensate for the pain, but it's nice to realize that there are some plusses to a slower life. The other thing that it's given me is a lot more compassion for older relatives and friends. I know what waking up stiff in every fiber is like.
And then there's this that someone sent me a week or two ago — "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, totally worn out and screaming, "WOO HOO what a ride!" Make mine a Manhattan, with sweet vermouth, straight up. On second thought, make it a double. And pass the chocolate.
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